


A Late Education

by dentigerous, wraithnoir



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Also: Sin, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Credence Gets Even, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Immigrant Issues, Immigrant Wizards, Justice for the character of Percival Graves, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multimedia, Note: Sinful AF, Percival was Not Ready, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithnoir/pseuds/wraithnoir
Summary: A compendium of the events surrounding and following the first-and-only Obscurus appearance in New York City, NY (1926). Further focusing on the lives of two men involved, Auror P. Graves and his apprentice, Mister C. Barebone, and their subsequent trials against the dark wizard G. Grindelwald and his followers; internal struggles within the MACUSA; encounters with the Second Salemers (DC Chapter), et cetera. Also included, a chronicle of the personal lives of the two men, their impact on society at the time, some detailing of their public scandals, as well as anecdotes and evidence of their intimate liaisons.This report comprising of personal narratives, eyewitness accounts, photographs, articles from Mage and No-Maj newspapers, textbooks, journal entries, interviews, and confessions. Authorized and collected on behalf of the MACUSA and the Investigative Subcommittee for Breaches of Wizard Secrecy, ICW.





	1. Conspectus

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Hello Dear Reader!   
> 
> 
> You've stumbled upon a magnificent experiment in storytelling, code, graphic design and sin. This fic is a collaborative project and we are constantly working to improve this story, both visually and narratively, and we are exploring the ways that we can create a storytelling experience as well as a great story. All visual effects, except for photographs, rendered in code, and will not show up if downloaded.
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> We hope you enjoy this work.  
> 

The Official Investigation  
into the activities of  
**Auror Percival Taliesin Graves**  
and his apprentice  
**Credence Ossian Barebone**  



	2. Directly After the Incident; Narrative Speculation

 

Reconstruction.  
(should be considered unreliable speculation)

Graves’ body was slowly pulled out of the subway station, inch by inch, cell by cell, magical strand by strand.  He was reformed on the roof of a nearby building, his body on fire, every part of him remade in something that was not quite apparition and not quite transfiguration.

His legs shook as he stepped towards the edge of the building, holding his hands out as if they could steady him. He blinked, saw his master under the ruin, and bared his teeth against the autumn chill.

Disaster. All of this. He had been too blind, too prejudiced to see what had been in front of him. He had operated on assumptions, and it had led here. It was one of the first rules he had learned as a young Auror, as a soldier in Europe. You couldn’t assume anything.

He was still staring at the station’s rubble when something glinted against the cement and ceramic wreckage. Graves blinked and then quickly pressed the tip of his wand against his temple, murmuring a quick spell.

His eyesight narrowed and sharpened, honed in on the twisting shadow, the living lightning, the monster-boy as it roiled over the street. Graves realized he wasn’t breathing as he pulled his wand away from his temple and staggered back.

Credence had survived.

Weak, broken, the pain was unimaginable, but he had survived, some part of him had survived.

The guise had been perfect and imperfect, Grindelwald wasn’t supposed to be captured, but they would think that Graves’ actions for an indeterminate amount of time were due to control or imitation. His eyes darted to the edge of the building, towards his master, but he knew that he couldn’t help him like this.

He had to prepare.

Taking a step back, finding new resolve, Graves turned and apparated into his own 86th Street brownstone. It would be impenetrable for a few more weeks, and he quickly turned and recited the charms and protection spells he had literally built into the home brick by brick.

The disguise needed to be complete. Graves went to his basement workshop and poured a vial of Polyjuice potion into a cauldron, plucking a hair from his head and adding it. Sighing, he used the tip of his wand to shear off a hank of his hair, placing it on the workbench. His vanity would survive.

He went upstairs and broke a few pieces of furniture, wincing as the shadow box containing his medals was smashed to the ground. It didn’t matter, it hadn’t ever really mattered, but it stung now. He flicked his wand and dirtied dishes, made the struggle appear more real, the home appear more abused than he would ever allow.

Let people play on their assumptions.

He sighed and destroyed his no-maj, hand-wrought Mackintosh chair, staring wistfully at it. He was not prone to denying himself creature comforts and unique pieces, but he was not in a position to save his home if he wanted to make the practical illusion feel honest. Closing his eyes, he thought quickly, going through the steps his Aurors would take.

Adding a few more touches (missing clothing, dirty shoes, placing a few dark arts trinkets he kept in boxes and behind magically sealed glass cases on his writing desk,) he went upstairs and packed a suitcase, charming it to fit into his pocket.

The whole process took about twenty minutes of destruction and execution. It wasn’t a plan he and Grindelwald had ever discussed, but it was the ruse they were going with now. Where would he have been kept?

Returning to the basement, Graves pointed to a corner and frowned, charming up restraints and barriers, various runed and spelled chains, a bucket, and as a final touch, bloodstains on the floor. At the very least it would appear he struggled.

Credence.

The name echoed in his mind, and he fought to find any shred of the man. He was distracted; already he could feel the encroaching MACUSA Aurors and despellers.

His wand.

It was the last thing, an obvious clue. Grindelwald would be in possession of his own, British-made wand, or none at all. Graves had a childhood wand somewhere, but now was not the time to find it, and it would obviously not work for the purpose of this deception. If he had been captured, his wand would have been taken. Grindelwald would not underestimate him (as he had underestimated Credence, as he had denied the boy’s power even as he had held it) nor would he leave the wand whole.

Holding his wand in both hands, he closed his eyes.

Merlin, was he so weak? After everything and he couldn’t bring himself to destroy his wand.

Swallowing, Graves looked around. He called a string of Wampus cat hair, the same core of his own wand. He had a bit of ebony wood in the workroom as well, and he put both items on the floor in front of his scene of restraint.

In a second there was nothing left but ashes and smoke. It would be analyzed and tested, and assumptions would be made.

Weak.

Taking a step back, Graves apparated to one of his safehouses in Yonkers, shook off his unsettled feeling and reached out again, pressing his hand against the charm he wore, tucked into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

Credence.

He took another deep breath and went further north, traveling along the Hudson to Tarrytown. He had an undocumented, small estate overlooking the Hudson, east of the main village nestled in a rather unreachable part of the mountain. Graves was sure that Credence would go northwards, but it was impossible to say where or even when the boy would show up.

Pushing thoughts of his failure out of his mind, Graves cleaned the small house with a few flicks of his yet-unbroken wand. House cleaning was not his magical forté, but neither was tracking twenty-something obscurials.

It hurt. It was an impossible pain

For a child, you would mourn the loss of innocence, the lost potential, the turn you would feel would be that of sadness, mourning.

But Credence was not a child. He had lived with this pain, this hurt, and it was an impossible amount to consider. Years of burden, years of beatings and self-hatred and an impossible cavity of knowledge. Graves though of his own hurts, his own burdens, and they paled in comparison to the deep, dark caverns of ache that must echo in Credence Barebone.

Graves had a sudden urge to destroy something. He felt that he could tear the world apart. Righteousness flared through him as he remembered that at the very least Credence had not allowed one of his great tormentors to live. If Mary Lou Barebone had survived Credence’s attack she still wouldn’t have lived much longer. Graves was sure that he would have killed her.

He might not have done so quite as efficiently. He imagined, for a second, inflicting on her every beating she had ever doled out to her adopted children. It was a small comfort, a distraction from the enormity of the destruction of New York.

Doubtless, he was not Grindelwald’s favorite anymore, but perhaps falling from grace was a blessing in disguise.

Graves was exhausted, and he took a few moments to respell the estate and surrounding area from any sorts of prying eyes, magic or not. It was already no-maj proof, appearing as nothing more than an abandoned farmhouse, but he pushed it further, made the enchantments more whole.

He took out the small charm of the deathly hallows, a mirror, although not an exact twin of the one he had given to Credence. It was attached to a small chain that clipped to his waistcoat, and in the dim electric light, it seemed dented and bruised. Already the symbol was turning into a sign of regret.

Tomorrow.

Credence would continue to run, and he would search for him tomorrow. He gestured and the lights turned off.

Graves didn’t fall asleep easily, and without his usual potion, his dreams were plagued with shell-shocked incarnations of the war. There were no bombs, no white-tinged spells of winter magic, nor any of the spelled illusions that were specialties of some of the Austrian mages. Instead, it was dark, and the spells turned to lightning, and the dirt turned to boiling dust and Graves was breathing in the enormity of a power that he had not known existed.

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	3. Clarion Clipping, December 10

Clipping from the No-Maj paper; _**New York Clarion**_ , December 10, 1926

spaces

DELAYS CAUSED BY IRT REPAIRS

### Small Electrical Explosion Causes Headaches and Frustrations

_Ollie Henrich_

Three New York residents were hurt in a construction accident downtown yesterday as two separate construction teams were accidentally given competing instructions from the home office. No word yet on where the mix up happened, but two different repair teams working on the electrically charged lines seem to have caused a fire underground.

The fire quickly exploded in the contained space and burst through to the street above. Luckily buildings surrounding the station were unhurt and declared sound later in the evening. Owners of shops and stores nearby are not pressing charges, and neither are homeowners. Some nearby reported headaches and confusion, but the gasses that ignited caused a relatively harmless mix of chemicals that dispersed a few hours after the explosion.

Very little of the wreckage remains, as the damage was mostly cosmetic and the area underneath the street has been cordoned off. The IRT has stated that this is merely to run routine checks on the area after an accident and expects it to be open within two day’s time. There will be additional runs along the remaining lines in order to make up for any increase in traffic.

IRT has assured the Clairon that this sort of accident is incredibly rare and only caused by malfunctioning inter-line electrical disturbances. The transit cars are perfectly safe and still a completely appropriate form of transportation for the general public. The IRT thanks you for your patience.

spaces

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	4. Before the Incident, Reconstruction (Est. Late Sept.)

Reconstruction based on Auror eyewitness accounts. 

As MACUSA Auror and Head of Magical Security, Percival Graves was not a man to leave loose ends. It was his unfortunate job to make sure that there were, in fact, no loose ends. Not always the cleanest or most satisfying job for a man’s soul.

Credence Barebone was a very obvious loose end.

The incident with the New Salemers had left something of a wound in Graves’ side. He had been on the scene at Pike Street almost immediately after the call had come in, then had stayed quite late to control the entire crowd and direct the Obliviators. It was an absolute nightmare and required the overtime hands of an entire group of Aurors. It was only after much of the crowd had dispersed that he was able to do more than just direct.

The dogma of the New Salem Philanthropic Society disgusted Graves, and he had half a mind to totally wipe the minds of the Barebone clan, and not just the memories of the past few hours. Going through the rooms he found the cause of Porpentina Goldstein’s misplaced heroism in the house cum chapel and crouched down in front of the shaking boy.

Hardly a boy, now that Graves had a chance to really look at him. His posture and demeanor belied his real age. Credence was in his early twenties, with an uneven and unattractive mop of dark hair and hunched shoulders beneath his threadbare jacket. Graves’ brows drew together, and he reached out to brush aside the fringe of his hair, sensing something worth seeking out in the boy.

Something shocked through Graves, a realization. He had seen this boy before, in something like a dream. He was not a natural seer, but had a small talent for catoptromancy, and there was some reflection of this boy that he had seen in his psychomanteum days, possibly weeks before. He was important.

Then there it was, the spark he had felt.

Magic. Deep inside. Some dark thrum of blood that gave this boy the rights of a wizard. He had magical heritage, strong and pure. It was hard to identify in this pitiful state. 

It was this realization, more than his half-memory of scrying into mirrors, that galvanized Graves.

Credence’s head didn’t move, shoulders trembling in a fit of shivers again as his eyes flicked up towards Graves’ face for barely a second. 

The boy was suffering.

Graves stood as Nolan came over. The other Auror bowed his head slightly.

“We’ve fixed the interior. Healers have finished with Mary Lou Barebone. Her two daughters are being obliviated now.” Nolan glanced down at Credence, who was rocking back and forth, arms around himself. Graves saw a flicker of something like pity on Nolan’s face and he resisted the urge to slap the Auror.

“Would you like me to-”

“I’ll deal with the boy,” Graves cut him off quickly, voice soft and authoritative. Nolan nodded once and left.

Graves took Credence with a firm hand around his upper arm, pulling at him until he stood. The boy (he couldn’t think of him in any other terms) was taller than Graves imagined he’d be; had he not kept himself stooped and hunched, the auror thought he might be the taller of them. He raised his wand and placed it at Credence’s temple, not surprised at all that the young man didn’t even try to pull away, but cowered, turning his face away from the wand. 

Graves pulled him closer, hand tightening around his bicep, turning so that he spoke directly against Credence’s ear. His breath disturbed the mussed hair by his face. He could smell onions in the fabric of the boy’s cheap jacket.

“You will not speak of what happened today. In two days, you will go to the diner on Debrosses Street. You will be there at nine-thirty in the evening.” Graves’ wand tip remained at Credence’s temple, pressed lightly against the thin skin. “I will meet you there.”

A flash of bluish light and the sleeping form of Credence Barebone sagged against Graves. The man lowered him to the ground, satisfied that the sleeping spell would fool the Aurors around him. He had implanted that memory with care and knew that when Credence woke, he would do so without the headache that would plague his mother and sisters. That clear directive would remain in his mind. 

It wasn’t anything like the Imperius curse; if Credence ignored it, nothing would happen. But Graves saw him, knew him. Had heard the quick intake of breath when he’d pulled the boy nearly against his chest.

He would be there. 

* * *

Reconstruction based on No-Maj eyewitness accounts from the No-Maj Diner, Ricoletta's. 

When the street outside the house at Pike Street started to grow noisy with the day’s beginning, Credence woke up and winced into the early light. He was in his narrow bed, though he didn’t remember lying down. However, he did have all his memories of events of the night before, in startling detail. He heard the clear voice in his ear. “I will meet you there.” Looking down at his hands, he saw that his skin was whole again; the only marks there were older, the type of marks that would remain on his palms forever. The rest of the household, however, made no mention of their brush with actual witchcraft. That strong voice echoed in his head, and when Chastity said she felt she’d never had a more restful night’s sleep in her life, apart from the strange insinuous headache she’d woken with, he said nothing. He hurried to the stove when he heard his mother on the stairs. There was food to prepare for the urchins who would soon line up for their breakfast and pamphlets. Credence glanced over at the stack of papers on the table. His first chore of the day would be cutting them, separating the full sheet into each half sheet pronouncement. Witches Live Among Us. They did, didn’t they? How strange that faith and belief had come together with proof. But only for him. 

“Credence, I asked you to bring the bowls to the table,” Mary Lou said in a mild tone, but there was fire behind it already and he wasn’t eager to rouse it further. In the interest of this, the rest of the day was spent doing precisely what his mother asked of him. The household seemed quiet to him, buzzing but distant, as if he were an unfamiliar drone that had been place in a dangerous beehive.

Another day passed, and then the second. His mother stayed up later each night, making up for lost time she couldn’t account for, and Credence had to wait after he’d been dismissed for the night to his tiny bedroom. It felt like hours kneeling at his door, fists clenching and unclenching against his trousers until she was in bed, her prayers said, her breathing even. The house settled and creaked around him, eerie noises that he associated with lying in bed and watching the dark ceiling above him as if something was hiding something against the heavy bare beams, pressed to the wood in the shadows.

By the time he opened his door, it was already past time. Even if he ran the whole way, he couldn’t make it by nine thirty. Fighting down the panic that this failure brought up in his chest, he snuck out and closed the front door silently behind himself. He hesitated on the stoop, one hand still on the latch, like he would wait and accept his punishment if he was caught. But no one came after him. Around him were the sounds of night he knew less well, the noises of outdoors, something falling down the street, a cat fight in the alley beside his home. The street was cold though winter was still some months off. Credence started toward the Tribeca restaurant, shoulders hunched and his collar up against the wind. 

Graves wasn’t at the tiny restaurant, but had been across the street since nine, watching from a sitting room window in an apartment that didn’t belong to him. Credence was late, quite late, but Graves was patient. There were things happening near the strangely compelling young man, and the Auror needed access into that world.

The boy’s gait was unmistakable, even from three stories up. He walked like he didn't know how to fit into his shoes, his shoulders, the world around him. Credence stopped in front of the diner and instead of going in, waited, glanced around.

Graves sighed and apparated beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder and letting the weight settle for a moment before he spoke.

“Go in, Credence.”

The boy’s shoulders tightened immediately; Graves felt his desire to run in the tightening of his spine when he inhaled sharply. He pushed Credence forward, not letting the boy so much as turn. He didn’t resist for more than a second, and even then, his resistance was more yielding than most.

There was a table in a shadowed corner, and Graves led him back without looking around the restaurant. It was a smoky place, with booths sparsely filled with tired men who had the familiar sag of regulars. He put his hand on Credence’s shoulder and pushed him to sit.

It was an easy, unquestioning compliance, and as he sat down, Graves felt that he had misjudged the situation slightly. Credence wasn’t quite what he had thought he was when he’d first met his eyes on Pike Street. 

The boy wasn’t even looking around, wasn’t looking at Graves. The man wasn’t sure if he simply had no curiosity, or had just repressed it and everything else about his human nature until he’d become this numb creature. That wasn’t entirely fair to him; it was clear that while he didn’t react to things, he wasn’t numb. He seemed always to be in pain, the way he held himself. Credence was half huddled on the creaky bench, his hands pressed almost against his stomach, chin drawn down.

Graves watched him for a few seconds before he gestured the waitress over. Her worn shoes were silent on the faded floorboards as she walked over. Seeming to pull up emotion from a deep well, she smiled and glanced between them.

“Good evening, gentle-”

“Two coffees.” Graves looked up at her, eyebrows quirked slightly. “That’s all.”

If the woman was surprised or offended, she didn’t show it, instead turning and immediately leaving them alone at the table. The silence stretched across the scratched surface between them.

Graves shifted, leaning towards Credence, fixated on the young man. His thin mouth was working as if he wished to speak, and his hands were so curled tight that even his shoulders showed the tension. Graves waited, observed, but didn’t say anything, trying to figure out if the expression on the boy’s face was sullen or scared.

“Credence.” 

The young man nearly flinched, shoulders tightening again. He tugged at his sleeves, pulling the worn cuffs down and trying to cover his hands. 

Graves frowned and lowered his voice. “Credence.” It was more of a command, the tone a young Auror would hear when his attention was needed but he wasn’t in trouble.

Credence’s eyes rose to meet Graves’, although his head remained ridiculously bent. His gaze drifted almost immediately to the side, and Graves’ mouth hardened into a line. The waitress came by to drop their coffees off and Graves glanced at her again as she set the chipped robin’s egg blue mug down in front of him. 

“A menu.” 

He turned his attention back to the boy. The waitress drifted away from their table, again not seeming to mind the man’s rudeness.

“Are you listening to me?”

Credence nodded slowly. Once, and then as if he had to think about it to be sure, twice. “Yes, sir.” His voice was so soft that Graves could barely hear him.

Graves took a sip of his coffee and winced. What No-Majs put up with amazed him. Even if one didn’t have the ability to use magic, there had to be a No-Maj way to make a hot beverage that didn’t taste like burnt tree bark soaking in dishwater. He put the mug down and passed his hand over both cups, noticing how Credence’s eyes followed his fingers, the way his dark eyes widened as a few ripples stirred the surface. It was an intense focus, the way that Credence’s gaze flicked up to meet Graves’ eyes and then down to the man’s hands. It was promising.

Graves tried the coffee again and deemed his own magics acceptable. He took a deep breath and shifted again, nudging the second mug towards Credence. He saw the boy’s eyes track the smear of moisture left on the table.

“My name is Percival Graves.”

No response, although Credence mouthed the syllables silently to himself. 

“Doubtless you have questions about the incident that occurred at your home the other day,” Graves continued. “Now is your opportunity to receive answers.” 

The waitress came by to drop off the menu, and this time she left immediately, not even waiting for Graves’ silent dismissal. Neither man looked at the menu where it lay half on and half off the table. 

Credence swallowed and pulled his hands closer to his body, fists pressing into his stomach. “They don’t remember,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, a confession. “Nobody else remembers.”

Graves nodded. “That’s because you are not like them, Credence.”

The boy looked up quickly and then down again. The change in his posture was notable if slight; he sat up a little straighter, although his back was still curved over and his shoulders hunched. 

“You’re not…” He swallowed, his voice gaining some small confidence. “You’re not a cop.”

“No,” Graves said with a hint of amusement. “I’m not.” He took another sip of coffee and then gestured with one finger. “Drink, Credence.”

Credence immediately reached for the mug with both hands, wrapping his cold fingers around it. His knuckles were reddened by the weather, roughened by scrubbing. He took a sip, not even bothering to check if it was too hot to drink. It hadn’t been an order, but he was eager to be obedient. 

Graves frowned, but didn’t say anything. Credence sat holding the chipped cup, staring at the dark coffee in the moment of silence before the Auror continued.

“What happened at your home was a magical event.” Graves said without preamble, the booth already having been spelled with anti-eavesdropping charms. “Your mother, unfortunately for her, is correct. There are witches and wizards among you. This city is full of magic.”

Credence stared at Graves, eyes widening. The auror went on, knowing the young man wouldn’t ask anything yet. He allowed himself to fully look over his face, the pale planes of it under the buzzing lights. The lines of his cheekbones and brow ridge were finely etched, though the numb sullenness of his mouth and eyes took away what could have been good looks.

“Miss Porpentina Goldstein, the woman who magically assaulted your mother, was investigating the Second Salemers, against my orders. Apparently the abuse she witnessed was enough for her to forget her training and reveal herself to you and your family.”

“Magic is evil,” Credence muttered, hands shaking slightly. The cup rattled on the table. “Unclean.”

Graves snorted, and if he had been a less dignified man he would have rolled his eyes. “That’s an ignorant thing to say.”

Credence flinched, turning his head to the side. His entire body was waiting for a blow that never landed. The other man watched him for a moment, the tightness at the corner of his mouth.

“However,” Graves shifted forwards, not looking away from the boy. “Ignorance can be corrected. It is not an unchangeable state.” 

As Credence’s eyes met his, Graves was reminded of a feral animal. Or an abandoned one. The boy took a short breath in. “I’ve had some schooling, sir.”

“Some?” Graves nodded and took another sip of his much-improved coffee. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

Credence nodded, turning back towards Graves slowly.

“Are you proud of that education, Mister Barebone?”

The boy shrugged, gaze drifting down again. “I’m not too smart, sir.” His toneless voice didn’t sound modest, falsely or otherwise.

“Your mother tell you that?” Graves’ voice was sharp suddenly, his attention focused. “Or did you think that up yourself?”

“I-” Credence stopped himself. He was still holding the mug, and he carefully turned it on the table. He glanced up at Graves, who raised his eyebrows. “My Ma told me.”

“I’m not talking to your mother.” Graves didn’t look away from Credence, holding his gaze. “Do I need to repeat the question?”

Credence let Graves’ eyes hold his, and his eyebrows drew down slightly as he shifted, sitting up a little straighter. “I got a merit certificate.”

“In what?” Graves’ response was immediate.

“Recitation,” Credence said before looking down again. 

“Recitation.” 

Credence nodded, mumbling a “yes, sir” that was almost silent. 

Graves sighed and sat back, reaching for the menu and pulling it in front of him as he read it over. He took a sip of his coffee and then glanced at the boy again.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, turning the menu over and then setting it down again. “There wasn’t much in your home.”

Credence shook his head, fiddling with his sleeves again. “I ate breakfast.”

“And what did that consist of?” Graves asked. Getting this boy to talk was like pulling teeth, but Graves was willing to endure. There were a thousand old sayings about the power of patience, and while the Auror was a man of action, he found no fault in waiting for the opportune moment. There were things to gain here, prizes to win. It was a long game.

“Gruel,” Credence said, voice soft again.

“Right.” Graves wasn’t surprised in the slightest. He took another sip of his coffee and placed the menu in front of Credence, gesturing slightly. “I’m assuming since you spend your days passing out literature, you know how to read. Pick something.” 

Credence swallowed, glanced up at Graves for a second and then picked up the menu. Despite whatever he mother had thought, Graves noticed that his eyes moved quickly over the options. His mouth moved slightly, but no words came out. Graves assumed that he had never before had so many choices. 

Credence flipped the menu over, breathing faster as he took in the array of food described. Graves sighed and looked down into his nearly empty mug. “Today, please.”

The boy started, looking up at Graves. He put the menu down. “Eggs.”

“Eggs?” Graves was hoping for...something else.

“And…” Credence looked down at the menu, his shoulders hunching up. “Toast. White toast.”

Graves leaned back in the booth, gesturing the waitress over. The boy hadn’t asked for the Lobster Thermidor, but at least he had asked for something. Graves was starting to realize how desperate the situation was with Credence Barebone.

“Eggs, a side of toast, and a rasher of your salted ham,” Graves ordered, passing the menu back to the waitress. She took it, nodded, and left immediately. The auror looked back to Credence. It was uncanny the way he sat there, a still presence of smoldering something under his ill-fitting black clothes. He didn’t look like he’d fit in anywhere, like there was no place in the world he would look or feel at ease.

“Mister Barebone.” Credence ducked his head when he was spoken to. “The reason you remember the incident and the rest of your family has forgotten is because they are non-magical persons. You, however, are different.” Graves placed emphasis on the last few words, giving them weight.

Credence shook his head, once, almost as if he hated even disagreeing with another person.

“I don't have any...I don't do any magic,” he offered weakly.

“No, you don't.” Graves reached over and tapped the table in front of the boy. Credence looked up sharply, mouth slightly open. 

“I don’t do anything like that, sir.”

Graves shifted, leaning forward. “But you could. You have magic in you, Credence.” He held Credence’s gaze, intent. “I can tell.”

The boy looked startled and pleased. Instead of really reacting to the praise, he hunched his shoulders again, pulling his eyes away from Graves’ and tucking his chin. 

“I don’t...I can’t.”

Graves leaned in more. “Not yet.” He knocked on the table again, and like a charm, Credence’s eyes shot up. “I could teach you.”

“Teach me?” Credence repeated, eyes wide with something like hope. His face was suddenly etched with more emotion than he’d shown before. His jaw had been carved from stone, his cheekbones sharpened by hunger, but he seemed to be something very soft and raw in that second. His hands shook under the table, and Graves did not look away. Did not let Credence look away.

“Would you like that?” Graves asked quietly. 

Credence nodded once, a strange mixture of desperation and wonder on his face. “Yes, sir.”

Graves smiled and then nodded, leaning back comfortably. “Then I think we can help each other.”

“How can I help?” Credence asked, tilting his head to the side before looking down. “I can’t, I don’t think.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

The waitress dropped the plate off, and Graves didn’t even look at her. He pushed the plate of food in front of Credence, moving the mug aside with a gesture. 

“Eat.” Another order, softly spoken. He was warm with dawning satisfaction.

As Credence reached for his fork, he looked up at Graves and then back to his plate. “You didn’t get any food.”

Something pained came to the surface of Graves’ face. This boy, who was almost starving, was asking after his food. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that Credence could survive to be caring and tender in these strange moments when all he knew was hurt. Graves was having a difficult time ignoring the protectiveness that came out of something so simple. He’d wanted the boy as a stepping stone, a tool to a much larger project. Such a stupid statement, and Graves felt again his fury with the way the world worked. 

“I’m not hungry.”

Credence hesitated before slowly starting to eat. After he saw that Graves was truly uninterested in his meal, he started eating in earnest, bolting the eggs and meat first.

Graves finished his coffee, but instead of asking the waitress over he murmured a spell over the mug. Coffee from the bowl behind the counter appeared in his mug as he continued to watch Credence. 

The boy reached for his own coffee, downing the remaining half. Graves smiled slightly and waved his hand, coffee appearing in Credence’s mug. They were simple spells, but completely new to Credence. Graves pondered for half a second how odd it was that Credence was awed by the magic, impressed by it, but never frightened or shocked.

He waited until the boy was finished before speaking again. 

“Do you want more?”

Credence nodded once, then hesitated and shook his head. “No, thank you sir.”

Graves frowned and leaned forward, “If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.” Silently, without any effort at all, his wand appeared in his hand. It was long, ebony, and had inlaid mother-of-pearl in a small circlet near the handle, which terminated in a fairly modern silver ornament. He tapped the plate and more food appeared. It hadn’t come from nowhere, though Credence couldn’t have known that; in fact it was a fairly rudimentary spell to conduct the eggs and ham from the kitchen, and certainly wouldn’t taste as good as if he he had used a proper cooking charm, but judging by the look on Credence’s face and his previously displayed appetite, he doubted that the boy would care. 

As predicted, Credence’s eyes widened, his mouth opened. He was too amazed to be afraid, fascinated by the appearance of the wand, a real symbol of magic. The wands on the New Salem banners were too crude, too awful. They didn’t compare to the elegance of what Graves held in his hand.

Graves saw curiosity and hunger, and he knew that he had truly enchanted Credence. There was always a turning point, with any person. Whether it was the smell of the ham or the way the light caught on the band of mother of pearl where it cut through the dark wood of his wand, he’d found Credence Barebone’s.

“That’s your magic,” Credence muttered, glancing up at Graves. “Right there, sir.”

The wand disappeared, and Graves nodded.

“It certainly helps.” He picked up his coffee, taking another sip. He gestured with the mug. “Eat.”

Credence didn’t need to be told twice, and he shifted forward to dig into the food as though it would disappear as quickly and magically as it had arrived.

Graves smiled again, watching Credence for a few more seconds. He glanced around the diner, but he was sure that nobody would be looking over at them or had noticed them at all. The grammars he was performing were minor. Nobody would notice.

Credence slowly stopped eating, finishing the last bite of ham and licking some of the fat off his bottom lip. He glanced up at Graves and then looked down, pulling his hands back into his lap. Graves couldn’t help noticing the sheen on his lip from the grease, the way it mirrored the pearl on his wand, that thin strip catching the light from overhead.

Graves raised his eyebrows. “Done?”

“Yes,” Credence murmured agreeably. “Yes, sir.”

“Really?” It was almost teasing, the closest to light-hearted that Graves had shown.

“Yes, sir.” A pause- Credence didn’t look up at Graves and didn’t comprehend the lighter tone. “Thank you, Mister Graves.”

Graves nodded dismissively, shifting forward in the booth. There was real business to attend to now that the boy’s empty belly had been dealt with and he was sure he was listening. “Mister Barebone, there is something, or someone, in the New Salem organization who is causing a small amount of trouble.”

Credence shook his head once, then pulled his shoulders up. “No trouble,” he murmured. “We only...we pass out pamphlets. Ma holds rallies.” He paused. “We feed children.”

Graves made a noise, sitting up straight again. “That’s all the organization does, that’s true. But I’m not interested in the organization.” 

Credence frowned, waiting for the Auror to explain. 

“I’m interested in the children. I want to know more about them. To find a particular magic child.”

“The children?” Credence repeated, confused. “But you...you do magic yourself.”

“I can’t be everywhere, I can’t see everything.” Graves moved two fingers elegantly and shrugged. “And some magic can be hard to find.” He smiled a little, and Credence glanced up quickly enough to see it. “There are rules for these sorts of things.” 

“My mother looks for witches,” Credence muttered, makings fists of his hands and pulling them close. “But...we don’t see any. Not yet.” It was strange to take this all in, knowing the man sitting on the other side of the table was a wizard, had a wand for his magic, had power over who knew what.

“She’s looking in the wrong places,” Graves said sharply, pushing his coffee mug away from himself in a tiny show of impatience. “I need you to look at the children around you.”

“The children,” Credence repeated in a hushed voice. He looked to the side and then down to his lap again. “How would I know?”

“It’s hard to say for sure. I’ll admit that I’m still trying to figure out what kind of magic we’re dealing with.” Graves made a noise, shrugging then leaning over to tap on the table with one knuckle. Immediately Credence’s gaze shot up. A useful trick, Graves decided.“There are signs that magic has taken over a person. When they’re missing time or can’t remember where they’ve been, or what they’ve done. This is even more significant if it lasts for a period longer than a few hours. You should note if they often seem dizzy or confused, or if they’re extremely tired with no clear reason.”

Credence nodded, watching Graves closely. His protestations, unspoken, were obvious in his troubled brown eyes.

Graves sighed, frowning a little. “I understand that considering your circumstances and the circumstances of the children you look out for, these conditions could be easily dismissed. I want you to look for a pattern of disturbing behavior. I want that kind of information.”

Credence swallowed and Graves leaned forwards, talking quietly. “I want to help people, Credence. People like us.” He raised his eyebrows, focused intently on Credence. “Do you believe me?”

Credence seemed caught by Graves’ eyes, almost transfixed, even though Graves wasn’t using any kind of magic on the young man. He wanted to hear it again, to hear himself included in the world this man inhabited.

“People like us,” Credence whispered, and then nodded. “Yes. Yes.”

Graves shifted back, making a noise. “I believe in you, Mister Barebone.”

Credence swallowed, blinked and then looked down again. His gaze darted from his hands to the pitted edge of the table, his worn sleeves, the ratty piping on his jacket, his dark striped pants. He breathed a little faster, chest rising and falling rapidly under the ironed front of his shirt. 

All of this was catalogued away, recorded and understood. Known. Graves waited another few seconds before moving forward, tapping the table again. Credence looked up again, giving Graves his full attention, mouth pressed. How many times could that work, Graves wondered.

“Credence,” his voice was low, soft, confidential. “I need to know that I can trust you.”

“Yes. Of course.” He nodded. “Of course you can, sir.”

“You understand what that means?” Graves asked, eyebrows up, leaning forward to get as close to him as he could. “You can’t tell anyone. Not your sisters, not your mother. No one else.”

Credence’s eyes slid away from Graves’, went down to his hands. He pulled on his sleeves and nodded. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Graves finished his coffee, left the mug empty this time, and sat back in the booth. He watched Credence for a few more seconds. Slowly Credence’s shoulders hunched again, his chin almost to his chest, as if he could make himself less of a person, less of a thing. 

Reaching over to the end of the table, Graves plucked a wilting carnation out of the small glass filled with tepid water. He saw Credence’s eyes flick up to follow his hand. 

Graves made a low whistle and leaned forward again, knowing Credence would feel the pull to do so as well. As he did, the carnation turned, transforming into a totally different flower. It became something strange and velvet black, with white veining climbing up the top crested petal. Credence was transfixed, his mouth open and dry as Graves slid the stem of the flower through the buttonhole in the young man’s shabby lapel.

“A reminder.”

He stood, pulling No-Maj money out of his pocket and dropping the coins onto the table. “Last chance to ask questions, Mister Barebone.”

Credence blinked and looked up at Graves, his eyes huge. He could feel the flower burning against his chest, through his jacket, through his vest, through his shirt, his imagination sparking and giving it fire.

“How do I...see you? How do I talk to you again?”

Graves made a thoughtful noise, smoothing down his tie. “I’ll find you.” He paused, reconsidered. “However, I understand the need for a schedule. Five days from now, take a walk around your block.”

Credence nodded with immediate obedience, and Graves smiled slightly. He took a step forward and put his hand on Credence’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. He moved his thumb and could make out the young man’s collar bone beneath his layers of clothing.

“I expect you will keep your eyes open, Credence,” Graves said quietly, leaning in toward him. As he spoke, as he touched Credence, the boy exhaled, his back tensing. He nodded once. 

“I will.”

“Good.” Graves said. He squeezed his shoulder again and then walked out of the diner. His smile disappeared as he walked out the door. He turned the corner towards Canal, apparating back to his Upper West Side home. He hadn’t even heard the boy’s shoes on the street behind him. He’d just walked away, leaving Credence Barebone with magic resting on his jacket and hope caught in his throat like something to choke on.

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	5. Excerpt from "Botanicum Magicum: A Complete Codex of Magical Flora"

  
  


Stricken and Shot:  
The Curious Spell  
of the  
Periculid Orchid

* * *

n the annals of magical botany, there are many plants which are well-known for their properties, even if the plant itself is a rare find. For example, the ointment produced from the extraction of a solanaceous herb, particularly those containing the alkaloids _atropine, hyoscyamine_ , and _scolpalamine_ , is a well known method for prolonged flight, however if one moves past the more usually occurring _Hyoscyamus niger_ and is able to seek out the _Conium aquariam_ found around the edges of natural lakes in the Adirondack mountains, the powers of flight are so magnified as to last nearly double the duration of the usual formula. However, the dangers involved in seeking out the pools this particular genus of hemlock grows beside presents enough of a deterrent, even to modern day wizards in our own 20th century, that it is said for every hundred explorers seeking it out, there are ninety-nine skeletons to show for it.

The blossoms of the periculid have been another such prize, though it’s more beneficial uses are only being discovered in this more civilized century. This plant has been known through the ages as a source of both a divine perfume as well as one of the most sophisticated chemical poisons ever known to mankind, yet the trials of obtaining it have in the past kept all but the darkest of wizards away. 

**note the stomae for pollen:**  
po-Pollinia; c-Caudicle;  
vd-Viscid Disk; vg-Viscid Glove;  
r-Rostellum; lr-Lip of Rostellum

A study of the plant itself reveals to us a distant member of the Orchidaceae family which shares the usual traits of its kind, including the classic zygomorphism, a highly modified labellum, fused stamens and carpels, and extremely small seeds. The seeds have been shown to have the highest concentration of toxin, though because of the extremely short period of their visibility in the plants, these are the rarest portion of the plant to obtain.

The leaves, as with most monocots, are long and straight with parallel veins, and have no toxic properties whatsoever. The flower itself is of the most interest, with its distinctive sepals and medial petal colored an almost delicate black with white patterns reminiscent of a classic spiderweb.

Though for years it had been thought that simply inhaling deeply of the perfume could bring about symptoms leading to death, the toxin can only be captured through a very careful distillation process. The essence for perfume is extracted in a nearly identical process, however, and many wizards throughout history have perished in the pursuit of one when he or she found the other instead. We find texts making mention of the periculid in the 15th century work of Agatha Mnemony, a witch known for her poison work: **“An yet I founde the pod of the Paryclid moste potent, for in them was writ the destruction of mine enemies, who haf all weaknese against pies and cakes, and in them was baked the poyson.”** Again, a mention in the 18th century, in the writings of Casanova: **“Whereon I sniffed of the little vial, which the beautiful boy assured me was a perfume of the rarest flower that bloomed, the pericule, and I swear I was smitten with love of the most immediate sort.”**

Though quaint writings may make the powers of the periculid seem apocryphal, its actual potency should be respected. The extract of its flower brings about a painful death through a complete collapse of bodily systems in nearly every type of creature; only the griffin and unicorn have been proven to be invulnerable to its poison. Symptoms of periculid poisoning include bluish lips and fingernail beds, fast fluttering of the eyelids, repeated phrases, dilated pupils, and a faint floral scent on the sufferer’s breath. Death occurs in one to five hours, and at present, there is no known cure.

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	6. Directly After the Incident; Pensieve Memory

Recovered from an abandoned Pensieve believed to belong to C. Barebone.  
Currently, this is the only record of an Obscurial's state of mind  
while being overcome by an Obscurus. n/b: memory is highly volatile & unstable

Proceed with Caution 

  
  


**To be something new, to be something that is made up of shifting pain. Every time I writhe away from pain, that part that hurt no longer exists. It is something gone from me and I have new parts. The pain comes, like always, but I can move away from it again and it becomes something else. You can’t hurt in something that isn’t there. Your hand can’t hurt if there’s no hand.**  
  
But all I can think about is my hands and the backs of my thighs and shoulders. If they aren’t here, they can’t hurt. I’m just something that hurts other things and isn’t hurt back, I’m something that hits back. Buildings fall and the bricks drop like rain, but it doesn’t clean anything, like rain doesn’t clean anything. If you catch one drop in your hand, you can see that it’s clear, but if you look in a puddle, it’s all dirt and filth.  
  
I don’t want to have hands anymore because there’s everyone to hurt them and no one to heal them. 

When I was smaller, much smaller, I could hide in almost anything. Sometimes I knew when to hide because I’d done something wrong. Broken a bowl, I remember that time when I had broken a bowl. I was dizzy and tired because morning comes so early in the winter time. I thought about being warm, thought about it so hard my head was aching and pounding with a rhythm like some kind of drum. My hands wouldn’t work as though they were somebody else’s hands I was watching. Because I was watching, the whole time, looking down at the bowl and my fingers on it, noticing how it was blue and my fingers were white and there were three chips in the rim. I counted them while I pushed the headache down, because sometimes when a headache like that comes up, I can count it away. Sometimes I count windows, or cross laces on someone’s shoes in the street. 

Windows shatter across a part of me that I thought was my back, but that hurts so I shift away from it and there isn’t a back to me anymore, there’s no backbone that remembers the hardness of the wall or ribs that remember my fingers counting them up the sides, because you can always count things on yourself.

But back then, I watched the bowl fall like someone else had dropped it. I heard it shatter from far away, though I felt one of the piece bounce against the toe of my boot. The headache was everything as I pushed it down, but I couldn’t swallow any more of it, even when I was seeing darkness in the corners of my eyes.

Ma was in the kitchen, and she didn’t know the bowl was broken, and didn’t know that I was the one who broke it yet. I could hide so easy in the sideboard, in the back of the cabinet where there weren’t any dishes or plates or chipped cups. My headache giving me away; I knew I’d been thinking too hard about being warm again. 

But she found me, because I’m not as good at hiding as I think I am. 

It happens like this: first the skin turns red, then white, then there’s blood. After that, it’s scabs, and sometimes pus if it goes bad. And it’s pain the whole time, all different kinds. Throbbing and stinging and sharp and long and slow. Holding onto a cold lamppost can help. 

But he can move his hand and make mine feel better, leaving no scars or anything. Magic.

That’s what I am not. He wouldn’t teach me, but maybe I guess he did anyway. It’s a matter of letting the headache escape and ignoring the numbers that press at your eyes. Twenty-two stairs. Six loose stitches. Five fingers on the back of your neck, passing over your palm, gripping your shoulder, touching your cheek. Five fingers letting go.

All you have to do is let go.

This isn’t magic, but it’s power, I think. I remember when there were pictures of the Great War in the newspapers, when I was little. Those winters were even colder and the gruel was thinner. The headaches were very bad then, and when I thought about the guns and the grenades and the poisonous gas, they got worse until I could barely stand up. I was so hungry all the time, but I had such a hard time eating. All I did was count then.

I guess this is supposed to be magic, but I don’t know how to do anything. It’s just there, it eats me up with something dark. When I pull away from whatever hurts, I know how to do it, like breathing. It’s like those things you don’t have to be taught, you just already know. But I never knew how to do it before, and I’m not sure how to stop. That’s the hardest thing of all, to remember that I’ve got a body. 

How do you remember what your body is like? What your face goes together into? Of course there are two eyes and some kind of nose and mouth. I remember what my mouth feels like, pressing my hands against my lips to make myself quieter, to make myself stop breathing. That’s how you can stay quietest, and sometimes I thought I could just stay like that forever. But I couldn’t.

The voices below me are using my name and immediately I remember that I’m Credence, that my hands shake when I’m tired, that he slapped me and told me I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have this power. 

He was wrong. 

No one can stop me now. When I breathe out, there are bricks tumbling from the sky. When something hits me, now I can hit back. I’m not made to be controlled, this thing inside me whispers, this thing that is me screams. I’m not made to be taught, through the pain of all my past lessons. This is it, this is everything, and I know I’m dying, I know this is burning me up inside, eating something I didn’t even know was there.  
  
Count the streets as they go by. It’s a habit, I can’t stop it. One, two, three. Count the voices. I hear him, I hear her, I hear another him. One, two, three.  
  
I remember how to hide. I’m burning up but cold inside, and the weight on me is suddenly so heavy. I have to go down. I have to hide. I have to go down to hide. I’m afraid. 

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	7. At the Catholic Chapel of the Annunciation, Brooklyn; Speculation

Reconstruction based on circumstantial evidence.  
(should be considered unreliable speculation)

The world was too large and had condensed into a small kernel of burning pain at the same time. The world was New York City, and he was an exhalation of smoke that had once been a storm. His heart was pain and he felt it beating, hot and too alive. He couldn’t shift away from the pain now; there wasn’t much of him, and what there was, was all pain. The wind could buffet him and fling him against the side of grey windows and dirty bricks that he knew he could have broken before, shattered and turned into glass rain down onto the street before.

But that was before and now there was only escape escape escape. The buildings all felt broken as he tumbled in the wind, as though every place he’d destroyed in his formless anger was scraping its skeletal maw of bricks like broken teeth against parts of him that were raw and exposed and already in pain. 

Credence Barebone was enough of himself to feel pain, and that same part of him was still conscious enough to drag himself through the city, across the bridge, looking something like a burned leaf as he settled through the collapsed roof of a small building in Brooklyn. It had been white, the building, but it was no longer white; it had been a tiny chapel built into the space between two larger, hulking buildings, but it had been abandoned after a terrible event, and now the small stained glass windows its parishioners had worked so hard to pay for were broken or boarded over. The plaster, painted saints were gone, the gold tabernacle with its tiny cross and little curtained window was gone, though there was a rain and smoke stained cloth still in place. Three candles were set at uneven spaces in their cheap holders on the altar, burned low and unlit for many years. 

It was dark, and it was quiet, and it was cold, like a ribcage with the heart and soul fled, and Credence let himself fall and heard himself wail and, huddled against the dirty cement of the floor, he knew he was human again, if he’d ever been human to start. Then he knew nothing else for a time, and the time spun around him without his knowledge while his skin grew chill.

Out in the city, a man felt his heat in a charm, and Credence didn’t know he had any heat left.

But Percival Graves had known his escape, had felt it, and applied all his strength and knowledge to a hunt, to a search, to a rescue. Days of studying and scrying, emptying his closets of the herbs to burn and to infuse and to soak. The room was pungent with witch hazel, and Graves’ hair was disheveled. Four in the morning, with dawn threatening to break the spell he’d finally completed. Most of the books lying around the room had proven useless; he’d consumed them the way a blight consumes trees, gaining nothing and giving nothing and leaving these precious magic books around like cast off clothing or worthless cheap novels. 

The trace was weak, and not entirely from distance; Graves could feel whatever it was that was still, at least partially, Credence Barebone was fading away near the charm the boy still had with him. The man pushed himself away from the deep grey scrying bowl, in motion immediately as he grabbed his heavy coat from where he’d dropped it over a chair. Pulling it around him in a smooth motion, he Apparated near the trace signal, wary and watchful as always. There was a pressure in the alley, like an unnatural weather pattern had descended on the narrow space. A storm that hadn’t broken yet.

Graves knew he’d seen that storm break already, and he’d stood, wind-blown and awed by its power. But now there were more emotions than just the sense that he’d been a blind fool not to have realized that the boy was the power he’d known existed in the city and a rush of desire to contain that power, especially now that he knew just how much like a hurricane he was.

The man walked up the alley, straightening the collar of his coat as he did. He kept his eyes alert, senses wary, as he took in the place, the charm in his hand growing warmer as he approached the little chapel. The building was situated toward the front, in the constant shadow of the buildings towering on either side; looking up, they appeared to lean inward and arch over the falling structure. Dawn seemed further away in this area of the city; the shadows here couldn’t be pushed back by candles or sunlight. 

Or faith, apparently

Stepping in front of the entrance, Graves was surprised that there was a door left. He tapped the rusted handle with his wand; a glance behind him told him there was no one else around, and a glance inside the door as it swung open on creaking hinges gave the impression of abandoned emptiness. 

“Credence?”

Graves felt his lip lift in disgust as several pigeons that had been settled in one of the broken pews took flight in a flurry of feathers and disturbed cooing noises, escaping the intrusion through a hole in the low ceiling. It was not the only hole, and each puncture in the roof brought in a little bit of grey light to illuminate the tiny room enough to bring out shapes of things, or at least line their corners enough to let Graves walk through without a Lumos spell. He could feel the charm burning warmer in his pocket as he moved down the aisle. 

He kept his wand up his sleeve rather than in his hand as he walked, trying to make himself appear less threatening. Whatever was left of the boy likely had mixed feelings about him; he respected and expected that. No need to make the situation more difficult than it would already be. 

Peering down each row of pews, Graves grew more and more aware of the shadows in the corners of the chapel. They were too dark to be natural shadows, and he could sense the pull they had toward the right side of the small, blocky alter that sat on a raised dais behind a railing with holes where spindles had been broken away by heavy booted feet or drunken vandals. 

A scuttling noise near one of the holes caught Graves’ attention and he paused, then slowly raised his open hands. His white cuffs caught the light from a hole overhead, making him a beacon for a few seconds until he took another careful step into shadow again.

“Can you hear me?” he called softly. His eyes moved around the dark front of the chapel for a few seconds, analyzing the complete silence. Graves waited patiently, feeling a spike of something in his belly that was unidentifiable, though it wasn’t fear. Throughout all of this, it had never been fear. 

The silence drew on another few seconds before he heard it: a weak, wet cough followed by a strange sound, the sound of pages turning quickly as though a breeze had caught an open book. Graves swallowed and licked his dry lips, then took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Credence.” Such a name to call in a church, such a name to call a boy like this. The wizard focused on the source of the noise and began to walk slowly toward the front corner again, keeping his hands out to show he was no threat. 

There was no answer, but the cough returned, punctuating the silence with its ragged waves. It ended in a sobbing sort of whine, wordless and pained. Graves stopped where he was, just listening to the shuffling sound by the communion rail. It was the sound of attempted movement, but the sound wasn’t really going anywhere. When it had stilled, he took another few steps forward.

“Can you show yourself?” he asked very softly, voice carrying in the empty chapel. “I want to help you, Credence.”

He waited again in the stillness, not sure what to expect. Explosive destruction? No, Credence couldn’t do that without ripping himself apart. The silence seemed to draw itself around him, sinuous through the fingers of his raised hands. He wondered, for a painful moment, if he’d lost Credence completely and concentrated on the charm. Was it growing cooler?

“You left me.” The hoarse, quiet words were followed by the strange page-turning noise and Graves took a sharp breath and lifted his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said with quiet sincerity, turning around slowly to try to find the source of the voice. His empty hands remained raised in front of him, palms exposed. The charm was burning in his pocket, radiating heat against his thigh. Moving toward the altar, Graves turned to sit on the small step leading up to the chancel, the broken communion rail at his back as he looked around. 

His sharp eyes caught movement to his left, the weak light from somewhere picking out the twisted spokes of a downed wrought iron votive candle rack beside a short overturned pew that had likely been intended for a choir or altar servers when the chapel had still had worshippers. He concentrated, trying to make out exactly what he was seeing. There was something strange about the darkness, something fluttered in the shadows, fabric and darkly fluid before it settled into stillness again. 

“Are you?” The voice again, weak and breathless, but not angry. 

Graves could feel the remnants of power running through Credence, even in whatever state he’d found himself, but the wizard wasn’t afraid. More than anything he felt sad, immensely responsible for what his negligence had done to this boy. When he’d spoken to him of his suffering, when he’d felt the magic with its crystalline ring somewhere near him, how had he misjudged so badly?

He nodded and shifted a little, one foot sliding out a little more along the debris-covered floor, forearms resting on his knees as he leaned forward and spoke to the voice. He still didn’t know what he would see when - if- the Obscurial revealed himself. Looking down, the wizard took a deep breath.

“I am,” he said quietly, knowing the boy was near enough to hear him. “I’m...I failed you, Credence.” He pressed his mouth, running one hand through his mussed hair to push it back from his face.

“You came to...to end me?” Credence asked in his whispery, hoarse voice. It was directionless in origin, but Graves kept his attention on the spot he’d seen movement before. 

“No. No, Credence, I meant it.” Graves shook his head, looking up through one of the holes in the roof. The tiles sagged around the opening, more of them likely falling through to the floor as time passed. There were already several shards of tile at his feet. “I want to help you. What happened…” He paused, thinking through his words. This was honesty, quiet and real. He’d never wanted Credence to be hurt, whatever he’d thought he was. Even a Squib was from magical blood. “I never wanted to see you hurt.” 

“You hurt me too.” There was a pause, and Graves could feel the pressure build for a moment in the chapel. “You did.” Credence started coughing again and one of the half windows behind the altar blew out in a shattering explosion. 

Graves looked back over his shoulder at the jagged shards of translucent blue that remained affixed to the window frame. He nodded, staying silent while the coughing fit continued. He closed his eyes, taking on the burden of admission. 

“I did. I was wrong.” He sat up, straightening his back as he looked around. The cold of the place was seeping into him, through the soles of his shoes, up his backbone. He didn’t stand, however, wanting to remain closer to where Credence was still hiding himself. “I am sorry, Credence.”

He’d thought at first that this place had been chosen because it was abandoned and forgotten, an ideal hiding place away from the wizarding and the no-maj world. Now, sensing the remnants of magic in the chapel, he felt that coming here had been a choice. This had been a place Credence had belonged at some time. Before Mary Lou Barebone, before New Salem, whatever magic had been in this place had been part of the boy’s life. He was clinging to himself, what was left of himself. Graves looked back to where Credence was hiding back in the shadows. He wanted to say his name again, to continue to remind him of who he was. 

After waiting another moment in the hush of the altar’s shadows, Graves, raised his hand to gesture around. He tried to include everything as though it wasn’t the wreck of a place, just a place he was seeing for the first time.

“What is this place, Credence?” Graves asked, putting slight emphasis on his name. This is who you are, tell me what this means to you. Is this safety or penance?

“Chapel of the Annunciation,” Credence replied almost immediately. His voice was even quieter, more like a wind blowing through the broken windows. “You never been here, huh?”

Graves shook his head, trying to imagine the church with clean white linens on the altar, candlelight reflecting off the colored glass in the whole windows, incense mingling with voices singing in fervent Latin. This had been a haven for immigrants, the Irish with their painted saints and their wild magic. Graves considered Credence in all of that, trying to find this boy in those imaginings. 

“No,” he answered simply. “I don’t go to church much.” He knew it wasn’t enough of an answer; he needed to keep Credence talking. “Would you like me to fix this?”

“There’s too much to fix,” Credence murmured sadly. The silence that followed his pronouncement was broken by a huge, gasping breath. “This! I didn’t do this!”

“I know you didn’t,” Graves told him patiently, eyebrows higher on his forehead.

“I didn’t do this, Mister Graves.”

“I know.” The auror took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair again. It refused to stay in place today. “Would you like to see this place looking a little better?” He was only looking to keep the boy (or monster or whatever he was at present) talking. Mentions of taking him out of here could wait; he didn’t want to startle him. Without knowing what condition he was in, Graves wasn’t sure of the outcome of something like that. With the Obscurus weakened but still within Credence, he knew the boy was dying in this pit of a house of worship.

When Credence did answer, Graves had to lean forward to hear him. His voice was quieter than the sound of the pigeons settling their wings in one of the pews nearby.  
“I ...I don’t know how.”

Nodding, Graves stood up slowly, holding his hands out again. He was willing to do everything slowly, everything patiently. This was his responsibility. This boy and what he’d become was his responsibility. 

“I’m going to take my wand out,” he explained. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” He took the silence as acquiescence, calling out his wand slowly. He turned around once, taking in the whole chapel, then took a few steps to stand at the head of the center aisle.

The auror murmured to himself, making sweeping gestures that followed the lines of pews, and following his magic, the chapel would slowly put itself back to rights again. It had never been a richly ornamented place; it was small and shabby compared to other churches, but it had at one time been kept neat by the parish priest and the faithful who spared what time and little bits of their hard-earned money they could to try to keep flowers by their saints and candles glowing on the altar. Graves flicked the end of his wand, and the shattered glass flew up again into the mended window frames to form the simple but vivid colored panes they’d originally been. 

He turned and gestured again, bringing the broken spindles of the communion rail back into place from left to right before righting the simple altar. A broken wall sconce raised itself from the floor to reattach to the wall, the globe whole once more. Graves flicked his wand and there was a fluttery sound as the remaining books were mended, their pages flying back between the fixed covers as the hymnals and prayer books were slid back into the mended pews. 

When he was finished, he hadn’t made anything richer or more ornate. All he’d done was bring what was there back to rights, showing respect even though he had no faith in any of the symbols around him. Everything about the man was dignified respect and a hint of hidden weariness; his clothes were somber and neat, jacket dark beneath his heavy long coat. He left one thing out of place: the toppled candle rack, with its strangely twisted wrought iron bars created a black cage for what huddled behind it.

Graves turned to really look then, not sweeping his eyes past as he had before. There was a definite shape beneath the wrinkled, sooty altar cloths, and the weak movement was human. He didn’t turn away, feeling the moment there were eyes on his, eyes darker than the shadows they sought to hide in.

Credence (Graves was sure it was him, though he didn’t know what condition the body around him was in) knew the moment as well, and he moaned as he tried to awkwardly scuttle backwards. The attempted escape was ungraceful and weak, and even more pitifully, there was nowhere for him to go. At his back was only the bare wall. The silence after his abortive flight was full of heavy labored breathing, though even that was hushed.

“You’re hurt,” Graves said quietly, not asking, announcing. He turned his wrist slightly and the wand disappeared again. There was no reason to step closer yet, so he didn’t move as he watched. It was obvious that even had the wall not been stopping him, Credence couldn’t have gone far. 

“They...they did it,” the boy panted in reply. 

“I saw them,” he replied quietly, acknowledging it all. It was encouraging that the blame was on ‘them.’ He’d been anticipating it aimed at him. “I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen.” Listening to Credence’s stilted breaths in the dark, Graves remembered the war suddenly. In this darkness, he saw the nights after a battle and the shell-shocked soldiers he’d crouched beside in the trenches. “Can I come over there?”

Through the ornate wrought iron, Credence watched him with haunted, sunken eyes. There was a spark in them, something dangerous even in the exhaustion. He braced himself on his hands, which gleamed like pale spiders in the dawn light making it through the new windows, and shook his head wordlessly.

Eager to keep even this level of communication, Graves nodded and stepped back. There was still not very much distance between, but sometimes symbolic gestures counted. He took a deep breath, smelling the must and memory of incense in the very walls of the building. Symbolic gestures could mean a lot to someone like Credence, he knew.

“Alright.” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back to Credence. “I’d like to stay here, though. With you. Can I stay in the chapel?”

Credence’s wounded eyes stayed on Graves as he nodded slowly. He clutched the stiff, dirty cloth around his visibly shaking shoulders. His expression was numb, body and mind obviously traumatized by the culmination of his hours and days and years until that moment in the station. When the boy’s gaze dipped again and his chin was nearly resting on his chest, Graves shifted again. 

He moved slightly away from Credence and to the side, sitting at the end of the front pew. He could hear the pigeons cooing in the back of the altar. His reconstruction had locked the birds inside, though they were less concerned with that than the appearance of humans in their home. The auror took a deep breath, aware of how isolated they were here, the two of them. He turned his head to watch Credence, picking out his hunched shape more easily now. His face was like a flame, unnaturally pale and strangely beautiful with its carved, dead luminescence. 

“Can you tell me more about this place?” Graves asked in a light, soft voice.

“It’s a church.” The answer was almost petulant, then Credence’s voice resolved itself into something more vulnerable. “But then somebody...burned it. Because they didn’t agree, I guess.” There was something of truth and lie in his voice, a child’s lie of misunderstanding.

“You’ve been there a lot,” Graves murmured, knowing his voice would carry. “Not agreeing.”

“I don’t remember it here very much. Only a little.” Credence hesitated before continuing. “Things I’m...things I shouldn’t know.” He coughed weakly, slouched where he was kneeling.

The auror shifted toward the edge of the pew, not taking his eyes off the boy. 

“What things, Credence?”

In the dark of altar’s shadow, Credence Barebone saw many things. He felt like he was seeing them with many eyes, with eyes that saw the chapel full of people standing close together, with eyes that saw lights dancing over the altar with organic movement, with eyes that watched horrible things through uncomprehending tears. He could hear her laughter and feel the finger she pressed to his lips. Hush, Cree, it’s our secret. Watch me now.

“Candles,” he whispered faintly, the whiteness edging out vision. “Mama lighting candles.” 

The boy crumpled forward over his knees, the breath going out of him in a rush. Graves stood up sharply, making it over to crouch beside him when his forehead touched the floor. The auror slowly, carefully, put his hand against the bare skin at the back of Credence’s neck, looking down at his own strong fingers, at the unevenly cut hair at the nape of the boy’s neck. 

“Oh, my boy,” he murmured, feeling the unnatural chill of Credence’s skin under his hand. “This was not the life you deserved.” When Credence only moaned in response, Graves shifted to his knees, slowly rubbing the back of his neck. 

Credence tried to pull away, waiting for the hand to hurt him, waiting for the voice above to condemn him, but he didn’t have the strength for any of it. He couldn’t move, and Graves’ voice continued and he had to listen. 

“I am sorry,” the auror was saying, squeezing the back of his neck gently. “Credence, please believe me. I am sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Credence said, his own voice fading. Even with his eyes closed, he saw the lights; they were indistinct and wavery, pulsing with the heartbeat he could feel in his ears. “You know how...how she lit the candles?”

Graves shook his head, frowning slightly. “How?”

“Just the way...you fixed the chapel. When nobody was looking.” The tension went out of Credence’s body and he sagged bonelessly to the side. 

Used to needing his reflexes, Graves caught him before he hit the floor. Taking a deep breath, the auror lifted the boy as he stood, surprised for a minute by how tall he was, then looked down at him. It was hard to read him, even know, hard to decide how stable he was, how much of the Obscurus was within him. Credence was clearly unconscious, with his head thrown back against Graves’ shoulder and his mouth slightly open. The skin of his face was an unhealthy chalk white; it didn’t take a healer to know he was more than simply unwell. He shivered in Graves’ arms, the edges of his body seeming to blur. 

Graves tightened his grip on Credence’s body, galvanized into action. They needed to be away from this place; they needed to be somewhere it would be easier to help Credence, to contain him, to heal him. He turned and apparated them both back to his townhouse, standing in the doorway of one of his guestrooms. 

Credence had begun shaking his head slowly, knocking his cheek against Graves’ shoulder. 

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Graves muttered under his breath as he laid him down. He held his breath as he pulled back, watching Credence’s face as he opened his eyes slowly. They were only showing white, but not the natural whites of his eyes. They were already glowing a dangerous, almost toxic type of white. 

The auror pulled his wand out quickly, setting the end against the center of Credence’s chest. He watched his eyes for a moment before he closed his own and concentrated. He didn’t know what spells to use, what words to summon up. He tried to focus on solidity and staying, settling spells and home spells and stone spells. Credence’s body stilled on the bed and Graves opened his eyes. The boy’s head had fallen to the side, choppy hair mussed. He still looked deathly ill, but he was here. Alive. Human. Himself.

Graves straightened his back slowly, unable to look away from him. His responsibility now. There was a way to make this right, he decided, he just needed to find it. 

He gestured with the wand, the spell easy and wordless after all this time. The chair slid across the floor smoothly, and he gratefully sank down onto it. He’d keep vigil for awhile, at least. Only his body was allowed to rest, however. He had plans to make, and the clock on the fireplace mantle reminded him how little time he had to make them.

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	8. August, 1918. France; Reconstruction

Reconstruction based on interviews, first-person accounts and recovered pensieves.

“Tanks,” Favell spat, sneering. “Can you believe what these No-Maj fuckers came up with? Tanks.”

“They have to compensate somehow,” MAC-Lieutenant Colonel Percival Graves muttered as he looked over the map of the battlefield spread on the rickety camp table. He made an annoyed sound under his breath when a fat drop of rain fell with a belligerent splash on the dot representing a town in France he’d never even known existed before a few months ago.

The Great War was nearing its end. Years of endless battles had ravaged Europe in a way that couldn’t go on and leave anything still standing. The No-Maj United States Government had officially joined the effort, and the MACUSA, despite their long-standing anti-interventionist policies, had declared to the magical world that they would be sending legions to the front to protect the citizens of the United States. It was their duty and their responsibility, they stated firmly in their official notice, that as citizens of the world they do no less than protect the planet they all lived on.

It was something of a revolution. Most of the magical governments from around the world had declared their territory ‘warzoned’ and urged the witches and wizards to go even deeper underground. The wizards of the Central Powers had generally agreed that they would establish camps and new cities for their magical populations. The Germans had built an entire network under the Black Forest and had carefully avoided the politics that were ripping the rest of their continent apart as their No-Maj brethren expanded their dominion. The hidden magical areas of Rome and those on Mount Olympus had grown almost threefold since the war had begun. There was a remarkable lack of concern; wars came and went, and with the dangers of even peace time for the wizarding community, there was no rush to run headlong into more trouble.

Even England had refused to get involved, simply driving its already hidden communities deeper underground, promising to rebuild later. That was the message from Europe: wait it out and see what the No-Maj war leaves behind, so we can grow out of the ruins. America, already a maverick in just about every respect, was too young a country to get nostalgic about ruins. They had wizards ready to turn soldier.

The Aurors of the MACUSA were given formal military titles, trained up quick and sent to war with the rest of the Midwestern Toms and Harrys. It was easier to fool the US Government than work alongside them. Of course, the magical regiments of the Great War were not unknown, although they were listed under official government documents as ‘unconventional warfare units.’

This battle would be decisive. Even now, in the eleventh hour, Lieutenant Colonel Graves received reports of new MAC battalions that were appearing across France. If the rallying cry of hundreds of thousands of doughboys was enough to cause the Kaiser to shudder, he had no idea what the aid of wizards would do.

Early September, 1918. The fortified city of Metz was being kept by German forces and the AEF intended to take it back as a show of power. Lieutenant Colonel Graves was one of the wizards in charge of a MAC battalion that would be aiding the AEF during the battle, and he took to the leadership position easily. He had contacted Patton and a few other soldiers in charge of the half-million American fighters, and they had already given the MAC battalions their postings. Information was key, he believed, to any operation. Having all the information available meant you could create several possible scenarios, then choose the best. And should the best fail due to unforeseen circumstances, then you already had several developed backup plans to move on to. Information meant action when the time was right.

“Out in the field, we will be aided by the Air Service. They will be integral to the AEF’s success.” Graves, like most of the wizards he fought alongside, was not afraid of the No-Maj innovations, but simply lamented that they would be used for the destruction of others, as usual. Finally, No-Majs had the ability to travel through the air, and they wasted it by dropping bombs and firing guns from the sky. It was a constant disappointment.

“Captain Favell, your unit will be on barrage. Reduce the impact of incoming missiles on our front lines,” Graves ordered, pointing on the map to the line of tanks that Favell had shaken his head over. “Woodward, Hayes, your units will be in charge of anti-aircraft barrage.”

The two captains nodded, looking over the sections of the map that Graves had indicated. Each of the Captains placed their own pieces of paper against Graves’, tapped the top with their wands, and received maps with orders and directives, shifting arrows showing movements and possible scenarios.

The 7th MAC Battalion had about 500 witches and wizards, assigned to a space that was generally covered by four No-Maj battalions. While they were all powerful, it could be a challenge to figure out how they could be used to the best effect in an area so large.

Graves turned to the remaining officer, a young captain from New York who had been in the Auror program when she had volunteered.

“Captain Dalca, I will remain with your company. We will be on retreat and rescue.”

Dalca repeated a quiet, ‘yes, sir’ and tapped her own spelled map against Graves’.

“Remember to move with your assigned No-Maj groups. Invisibility potions have been resupplied, and we have a healer unit nearby. Send any requests to Army Nurse Nevele. She will dispatch and direct her healers.”

There was murmured assent from the four captains. Graves nodded, looking at each of them in turn. They had all volunteered, come from Auror training or magical law enforcement. Most of the 7th were from New York. He should feel proud, thankful, something. It was hollow, when he tried to tell himself he felt those things. All he wanted to do was end the war and leave the churned, bloody fields of France and go home to his real life. He nodded again and saluted, dismissing them.

* * *

The first shots were fired in the early dawn, when the sky was still a murky pale grey. The rain had abated, at least for now, but the ground was muddy and unstable. Graves hadn’t put himself on recovery to keep away from the action; he found it was easier if he remained in the thick of the fighting, keeping himself moving and active. Watching was the last things he wanted to do. He fixed backfiring rifles, eased the movement of tanks over the rough terrain, and created barriers that stopped some of the bullets that had replaced the nights rain.

All to aid the AEF.

The MAC battalion continued to assist the AEF while the airplanes screamed overhead to bombard Metz. Woodward and Hayes did an excellent job protecting the planes and only one was hit. Graves Apparated after it, but members of Hayes’ company were already after it, leading it down carefully so the crash didn’t claim any of the pilots’ lives.Graves’ urgency faltered, and his shoulders seemed to relax as he watched his soldiers work. He was proud of them, he realized, of what they could, of what he’d trained them to do. He was distracted for all of three seconds when a massive shell exploded behind him. Ringing.

Graves’ urgency faltered, and his shoulders seemed to relax as he watched his soldiers work. He was proud of them, he realized, of what they could, of what he’d trained them to do. He was distracted for all of three seconds when a massive shell exploded behind him. Ringing.

He was distracted for all of three seconds when a massive shell exploded behind him. Ringing.

Ringing.

He remembered staggering up with his ears ringing, the noise pulsing in his ears while his vision faded in and out along the same rhythm. There seemed to be black around the edges everywhere he turned his head as he struggled to his knees and then his feet, looking around.

The disruption had allowed the plane to crash completely, crumpling one of the wings. He could see through the cockpit glass, but he knew that behind him the line was broken, though there were AEF soldiers scrambling to fill it in. He saw mouths open, yelling orders, but he couldn’t hear anything over that damned ringing. To his left, there was a tank lying on its side, bloodied soldiers spread out around it like dropped toys. It had been a dirty shell, shattered, broken, the worst kind to let in.

Some of the figures on the torn ground belonged to his MAC Battalion. A witch was splayed out, her wand inches from her blackened hand. Another wizard, probably trying to stop the shell, was sprawled face down half out of the trench. His face was likely all that was left of his head.

Graves fought to stay standing, forcing himself to look away from these individual tragedies. He was breathing hard, a cut on his temple bleeding profusely and dripping into his eye. It wasn’t a premonition but experience and study that told him that the Germans would press the advantage. He gripped his wand tighter, grateful he hadn’t dropped it, and kept walking, over the trenches, past the bodies and ragged limbs.

There was a call out, something like his name, but Graves didn’t hear it, the ringing in his ears blocking out any other sound. It created a strange tableau for him, a silent, moving picture before and around him, when he could focus all of his attention on the visual.

He saw the shells moving towards him and he raised his hand, magic boiling and pulling at his skin, blocking them. The shells dropped, unexploded and unbroken. Inert, useless pieces of No-Maj scrap. He bared his teeth and pulled his hand towards his chest then swept it around in a broad gesture to cast a deep, disrupting spell at the enemy. Across the field, the ground parted in a long gash, the earth tearing itself apart at his command.

Airplanes shot over his head in sharp straight lines, and he glanced up in time to arc his wand up, protecting three planes from a shelling. His attention was pulled back to the field itself as he stepped further into the battle that was battering against each side like waves.

More bullets, the tiny sharp flashes all around. He brought both hands up, stopping the oncoming hail of iron, protected by the barrier he’d created around himself.

It wasn’t anger; it was too cold. He was lawfully destructive, righteous. How dare these soldiers hurt his men, how dare they drag the United States into their war? It wasn’t about the No-Maj soldiers, it was about his country, his place in the world, threatened by this pretentious, empiric force that stood against the ideals of his home.

He attacked the line as an army of one, breaking the German offensive, petrifying the soldiers, melting the large rifles that were shelling his men. This was his war, and he would fight. It had always been personal, he knew. It had always been leading up to this moment.

After an hour he only had enough energy to Apparate behind his own lines. As soon as his body took form, Captain Hayes grabbed him around the shoulders and called for a medic. Graves was barely conscious as he was carried to his tent. He forced his eyes open when he heard urgent voices, just making out the blurry shape of the blonde nurse ordered the men out of his small tent.

He woke up to the sound of shells exploding nearby. Graves fought against the firm hand on his chest, eyes wide, hand scrambling for his wand by his side.

“Whoa, whoa.” The voice was distinctly American, calm, feminine, and left no room for argument. “Sleep.”

There was a wand at his temple and Graves drifted.

The next morning, Graves turned over on the cot and immediately retched, stomach heaving, curling up on the bed.

It was impossible for his brain not to cycle through it, over and over, with the light coming through a loose seam in the side of the tent. He had killed. It wasn’t the first spell he’d cast, but he had done it. The Killing Curse.

There was a cool hand on his cheek and he flinched away. It was too much to be touched. It was too early. He felt raw, as though his nerves had been scraped bare. The nurse sighed and rubbed his arm.

“You’re safe now.”

Graves closed his eyes against it all. Against the light, against the memory, against the pointless reassurance. What was safety, in a world like this? Who was safe exactly? The questions made his stomach roil again, but the wand was at his temple as the nurse sent him back to sleep.

* * *

He was back on the second day, catching up as the front had moved forward towards the besieged city.

The AEF didn’t let its officers stay behind and neither did the the MAC Battalions. The colonels and majors and captains fought on the front lines, side by side with the enlisted witches and wizards.

Graves didn’t use the Killing Curse again, but the sounds of shells exploding against the trenches stayed with him through the night, echoed in his dreams every night, even when the countryside was hushed and waiting. France liberated, the Kaiser tossed off his throne, Europe reclaimed for democracy, freedom, the rights of all men and women. Wasn’t that the ideal?

He returned to America and to his position in the ministry, an Auror of the highest caliber, and now a decorated war hero who had risked his life not just for his people, but for his country. There was more respect associated with it than he knew what to do with. It was harder to be home than he’d thought it would be. While he was overseas, all he’d thought about was coming back to his old way of life. Now that he was here, things bothered him that hadn’t before. The more that he thought about it, the more backwards the secrecy statutes seemed. He’d watched witches and wizards die to keep No-Majs safe, using their magic to protect until their last breaths, but still they weren’t allowed to even be acknowledged? A veteran who bore scars he would wear until his own death, he walked the streets of New York as a secret; his battles would never make it into the history books. All because what? Any mention of magic, any mention of power that the No-Majs he’d been wounded for, he’d fought for, he’d done things he could never undo for might get too close to the beautiful fire of the wizarding world and get a little singed? These weren’t the kind of things a man said aloud however. He kept the ideas to himself, of course, but they was always there, in the back of his mind.

When he woke up in the middle of the night in his quiet, still apartment, fumbling for the dreamless sleep potion, he felt only resentment. Night sweats brought on by terrors, his breathing loud in the darkness of his silent bedroom. This was what he had done for his country, what he had sacrificed, the shell shock that no spell could settle. All of this, and what had the MACUSA done? Secreted them away, erased all trace of their service, Obliviated the men and women they’d marched beside who’d known exactly what they were, removed anything that could be seen as a mention of the MAC battalions from the history books.

Graves shoved all this down into himself, blaming it on misplaced pride, and fell asleep, grateful that the potion was so strong. In the mornings he barely remembered how his anger had tasted like chalk, how righteousness gripped his wrists and whispered death in his ear. He didn’t remember very much, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten it all.

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[ ](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


	9. August 1918, France; Diary Entry

Diary of Katherine Vona Platt during her time in the Great War, July-November, 1918  
MACUSA Healer, Nurse Corps, Senior Division. 

The straining of the summer is behind us, at least. Crouching in ditches in the wet mud is no fun for anyone, least of all for healers who know what kind of filth trench rats carry. The dirt is not so bad, and often I’ll see healers ignore it rather than spell it off. We’ll only get our aprons dirty anyway, we’ll say to any soldier, and dirt smells better than blood.

Today’s offensive was brutal, the No-Maj soldiers are as brave and solid as the MACA corps they stand next to. Obliviating them is nothing now; we’ve turned their memories into hallucinations rather than erased their memories completely. It makes for easier explanations and simpler cleanups. 

Dear Diary, I met the most courageous young soldier today!

Isn’t that the way these work? A confession of love at first sight of a rugged man, back from the trill of war, enemies conquered, dick out like a flag?

Not for nurses, I expect. 

I was called to attend after one Percival Graves (Major? Lieutenant? I don’t care, they all bleed red.) who, like an absolute idiot, had expended himself after directly engaging the enemy. By himself, basically, in his company’s opinion. Rich, handsome, and stupid. Typical New York socialite, I don’t know why I felt cheated. 

I suppose I shouldn’t be too harsh on him. I had to drag the poor fool into the medical tent and threaten him with a body-bind curse, which momentarily shut him up. 

He took the healing like a champ, didn’t resist the entire time, although that may have been because he was so near death. Not entirely near with me at his side, but close enough to make sure I stayed put. 

That daft idiot. 

He must have seen something out there, some kind of horror that wasn’t meant for men, and late in the night he turned and cleared his stomach. I feel badly for him. He looked about ready to scream himself hoarse before I managed to get him asleep again. 

We had enough of the Healer Corps around that I was allowed to stay next to him through the night. 

I heard some accounts of what happened. He saw his men killed and reacted without thinking, destroying three tanks and single-handedly breaking through the German lines. His wand is nearby, but I haven’t touched it. I’m tempted to see what spells he cast, but I don’t know if I’d be disappointed or satisfied with what I’d find. It’s none of my business, I guess.

The next morning I left him alone for barely ten minutes and when I came back he had left! Gotten up and walked right off as if he were fresh as a daisy and not nearly pushing them up. I don’t know what kind of will this man has but it is infuriating. 

He did come back to inquire after my name, and when he was thanking me, we fell into conversation. I decided to accompany him on his patrol, despite his insistence that it was dangerous. Honestly, I can’t remember laughing harder than after that. “You can’t,” he had said, frowning a little, completely serious. “It’s dangerous.” 

I’ll admit, he’s handsome, for a soldier. Not that hard to listen to either. 

The siege will continue, and I’ll keep an eye on the idiot gentleman. After seeing the lengths he’s willing to go, I have no doubt he’ll need a healer soon. I don’t mind volunteering, I guess.

* * *

Compiled under the Authorization of the MACUSA & ICW.

[](http://tigernoir.tumblr.com/)


End file.
